The Wistful Atlas
The map is in your hands. It is wet. You feel the dampness seep into your palms. The ink bleeds. The borders dissolve. You are in the library. The firelight flickers. It casts long, jagged shadows against the wallpaper. The wallpaper is peeling. It looks like dead skin. You hold the map tight. It is the only thing that matters. Everything else is noise. The clock ticks. Tick. Tock. Tick. The...
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